


The Chosen One Returns.

by springburn



Series: Random musings from The Capaldi character file. [25]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M, Historical drama, Hurt/Comfort, Love, Loyalty, Peter Capaldi character file, angst/feels, relationships, servitude, some smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-04-17
Packaged: 2018-10-19 18:11:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10645296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/springburn/pseuds/springburn
Summary: Gabrielle Durfort receives a letter and sets out on a journey to save her Lord, Cardinal Richelieu.A series of events is set in motion which will change her whole life.





	The Chosen One Returns.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to CHOSEN ONE which I wrote last year. 
> 
> It is quite a long one, but I didn't really want to split it into chapters. 
> 
> It was prompted by a series of gifs from The Musketeers episode 'Rebellious Woman', which was posted by the wonderful @duckodeathreturns on tumblr.  
> .....in which the Cardinal is poisoned, and almost dies.  
> His dream conversation with Gabrielle is taken more or less directly from the dialogue. 
> 
> I have endeavoured to keep the historical and geographical details and dialogue as accurate as possible.  
> All the details of François de Vignerot are true. He is really the son of Richelieu's sister. As are mentions of Armand's other brothers and sisters  
> I see François very much as looking like a young Peter as Azolan in 'Dangerous Liaisons' although the time of that film is several decades later of course.  
> (He didn't marry Gabrielle obviously, but she is the only invention as regards the characters)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> As for the epilogue, again those descendants details are real.

THE CHOSEN ONE RETURNS. 

 

The weather was changing subtly, and with it, her mood. 

A gathering sense, not of the joy of oncoming spring, but a general unease. It manifested itself in a feeling of disquiet, an unfathomable ache in her breast, that she couldn't quantify. 

Her sleep at night was restless and decidedly unsatisfying. Waking in the small hours from a dream in which she heard her Master calling to her. Longing for him. 

In the dead of night, her eyes opening with a start, his name on her lips.

 _"Armand."_

Morning sunshine filtered weakly through the shutters. The days were lengthening.  
Work on the Estate was shifting gear, a busy time ahead. Vineyards to tend, livestock to care for, hay to make and crops to plant. 

Gabrielle Durfort was up with the sun, breaking her fast alone before most of the household were even aware. As the warmth gradually seeped into each chill corner, filling the scullery with a golden light, she wandered down the terrace from her substantial home, out into the vineyards which came almost up to the house. 

A wide straw hat clamped onto her head. Skirts tucked up slightly to prevent them dusting the ground. 

Poplar trees formed a protective screen which bordered her vines. They served as a windbreak, saving the precious plants from the ravages of the Mistral, and from the frost. Row upon neat row.

New buds were just appearing on the gnarled branches, soon, tiny bunches of grapelets would form and the warming sun would swell them to ripeness, ready for picking, pressing and making into wine. 

Since the death of her father the Durfort Estate flourished. Enriched by the patronage of a certain Cardinal, who's beneficence had increased its size as well as its fortunes.  
It's owner now held the rank of Vicomtesse in her own right, by letters patent from His Majesty the King. 

She was, to all intents and purposes, essentially a man.  
Monied, a landowner, owning a vast swathe of the surrounding countryside, now a member of France's elite peerage, able to deal with vendors and vintners, merchants and agents alike, to buy and sell. 

The people who worked her land, peasants for the most part; the house servants, gardeners and her trusted estate manager, Pierre Leconte, all loved and respected their mistress.  
Kind and generous at all times, yet firm and fair, she treated them well, and was rewarded with their unswerving loyalty. 

Many knew her rather strange and rarified situation, but it was never spoken of amongst them. 

She had a son, Henri Jean Armand, who's name alone carried a certain gravitas.....her gift from God, as she referred to him. 

Most knew or suspected his parentage, having witnessed her return from Paris and her subsequent sojourn at St Teresa's, where she was cared for until the child was born.  
The sisters there, under strict instructions from on high, kept their mouths shut and their thoughts to themselves, a generous donation to their Priory coming directly from Le Palais de Cardinal. They neither admonished nor judged the young woman with whose welfare they were charged and for which they were handsomely recompensed. 

Mademoiselle Durfort, 'Madame' or 'Milady', as most referred to her, was a good and deeply pious woman.  
Her dress remained simple and plain, never grand or showy, despite her wealth and position.  
The table she kept was not lavish, happier with bread, fruit and cheese rather than rich food and sweetmeats. Nor did she imbibe more than a glass or two of wine.  
She did not entertain men, other than in business, nor act in a debauched or wanton manner in any way whatever. Never a socialite, she rarely mixed with those of equal rank. Except on religious occasions and to meet and discuss matters of Estate. 

Many of her neighbours and those of nobility, like herself, were at first condescending and dismissive, she was raised above her station, an interloper, _nouveau riche_ , but they soon found her to be astute and clever, humble, yet a force to be reckoned with, and gradually she was accepted, if not actually universally liked, among their number. 

Quiet and demure at all times. 

Attending mass regularly with her child, who was, clearly, her pride and joy, all her love being poured into him.  
Her behaviour was considered by most, exemplary. 

Because of the way she conducted herself, 'Milady' was accepted and a blind eye turned to her 'predicament' and her lack of a husband. 

It was surprisingly easy to accept when large amounts of money and lucrative trade are involved, in fact it was perfectly possible, in their view, for 'Madame' to be a 'married' woman with a permanently absent spouse as long as she remained a good and devout Catholic. 

It was sometime afterwards that His Eminence actually visited Durfort in person, on the pretext of inspecting defences.  
He, and his retinue, stayed for two weeks. 

Most thought him formidable. 

He rather frightened them. Tall, imposing. With a reputation for brutality. 

For Gabrielle, however, he represented softness, gentleness, love. 

Her face shone in his company.  
Any who doubted the validity of her attachment to him, and his to her, soon fell silent. 

She was in the presence of a much beloved Lord and Master. 

A time of joy. 

The two spent every possible moment together, alone. 

Gabrielle's house servants were well aware that The Lord Cardinal shared their mistress's bed. 

Nothing was said. 

A facade of respectability observed. 

He retired each evening to the room prepared for him. Returning there early next morning to wash and dress. What he did in the interim was no one else's business but their own. 

It was noted however, that following his visit, 'Madame' wore a ring on the third finger of her left hand, a ring she had previously worn only on a chain round her neck, tucked into her chemise. 

Some months later, unexpectedly, sickness beset her, unable to stay at home, despite her faithful maid's protestations, she retired to the Priory and the sisters at St Teresa's once more took her into their tender care. 

The Vicomtesse was away for several months. Rumour was that her lover had given her the pox, or that she was in a consumption.  
Only M. Leconte was privy to her condition and he was resolutely silent on the subject. Managing the estate in her absence in the same competent way he always had. 

Recovered now, she had been home for more than six months.

Armand Jean du Plessis, Duc de Richelieu, corresponded with his Vicomtesse whenever time allowed.  
Sometimes daily. Sometimes not. 

Missives were dispatched, not necessarily violent protestations of love, but the writings of a man.  
A great one at that. 

A man with divers cares and affairs of state which took up a good deal of his time. Working him hard, affecting his health.  
Occasionally a week or more would pass, perhaps as much as a month, with no word. These were long times indeed for Gabrielle. Times during which she spent many hours on her knees, in prayer. 

Then a post rider would appear. 

Whilst he was fed and tended to, his horse rested and stabled, the message he bore would be devoured eagerly, a reply written, sealed and ready for him to take back to her beloved master. 

Those letters were her treasure. Her meat and drink. Read and reread. Stored safely in a wooden chest in her chamber. 

He always asked diligently after her health, and that of her son. Entreaties for any crumb of news of the boy he cared for but could never acknowledge. Doings in Court. Tales of the King and Queen, snippets of gossip and politics he thought she may be interested in. Theological discussions which he knew she deeply relished. Always enquiring if she might soon be able to come to Paris. 

Her replies couched in the fondest terms. Asking after his wellbeing, was he taking care of himself? Careful not to be overly informal, nor appear too forward and casual, always mindful that correspondence such as this could easily go astray, although the letters contained no great intrigue or secrets.  
Just the heartfelt thoughts of a young woman and mother who esteemed her lord, who prayed for and thought of him constantly, but regretted she was unable to travel at this present time. 

Signing herself _'votre petite souris'._ (Your little mouse). 

oOo

Above her head, shafts of sunlight pierced the trees, casting their rays on the good earth at her feet. It had been a while since she'd heard from him, she mused to herself, her thoughts meandering, as she removed her shoes and waded the stream. Cool water rippling around her ankles.

His last letter spoke of a visit from an emissary and old seminary colleague from Rome.  
Luca Sestini, a Jesuit priest, sent by the Pope himself, probably in a bid to persuade the Cardinal to break his alliance with Protestant Sweden, she'd been told.

Bending, Gabrielle cupped her hands and took long drafts of the clear water. Slaking her thirst, the sun now higher and burning down with uncharacteristic heat for the time of year. 

Perhaps a letter would come today, she thought. Feeling a familiar lurch in her chest as she thought of her Master. 

Soon.

Soon she would go to him. When the last of the winter frosts had disappeared. 

Promised herself. 

" _Bring the boy."_ He'd begged her. 

Only right that he should wish to see the child, his own flesh and blood. 

Seating herself on the river bank she fell to reminiscing. Her arrival in Paris, a shy and inexperienced, virginal young girl. A bumpkin. 

Meeting his Eminence for the first time. Her fear and trepidation.  
He'd kissed her, and at once kindled a flame. Fingers traced her lips as she thought of his burning touch, the first time he'd laid his hands on her, taken her, made her his own. It stirred her deep inside even now. Heart beating against her ribs at the memory.  
What she wouldn't give to be with him now, close......to feel him, smell him, touch him and know his desire. 

Her eyes fluttered closed. Body betraying her, as her mind wandered. 

The delicious reverie broken by a sudden voice, calling urgently.  
Footsteps running. 

"MILADY! MILADY! WHERE ARE YOU? A MESSENGER! A MESSENGER HAS COME!" 

oOo

" _My dear Mademoiselle,_

 _Please forgive my impertinence in writing to you, but the urgency of our plight forced my hand._  
_I felt I should inform you that His Eminence is gravely ill._

 _I suspect poisoned, although I cannot ascertain how or by who's hand._

_His Majesty the King is beside himself._

_The Royal physician has attended on him, he has been bled and purged, but his condition does not improve._

_Oh my Lady, I humbly implore you!_

_Please come to him._

_He asks for you constantly, and I am frightened he may die, even before you can reach Paris._

_His life hangs by a thread. His enemies circle. I am so afraid for him._

_My dear Mademoiselle, if it is in your power to come to us, I beseech you to do so with all urgency, I will endeavour to preserve him with every ounce of strength I have, but I fear for him hourly, and pray that God will see fit to spare his life._

_I am, and remain,_

_Your humble servant,_

_Joseph Mercier."_

 

Gabrielle read the dispatch. Reread it. One hand clasped across her mouth. 

Swaying where she stood, her face white and full of fear. Clutching the table beside her, she steadied herself. Took some deep breaths. Rallied. 

Quietly, and without histrionics, she turned to her maid. Speaking firmly but softly. 

"Fetch me Pierre Leconte, urgently. I must speak with him. Tell Clotilde to pack my valise, also one for herself and the charge entrusted to her care. Then run down to the stables and ask that the carriage and horses be prepared.  
I wish for Georges to ride ahead and have fresh horses waiting at each inn to speed our journey. I will write a letter of introduction for him to give to the Patron, and a dispatch for the messenger to carry to Le Palais de Cardinal, to tell them I'm on my way.

We leave for Paris within the hour." 

She turned away, but the serving girl remained rooted to the spot, unmoving. 

"But I.......Milady......I........" she stammered. 

Gabrielle faced her, her eyes stern in the face of defiance. 

"What is it? Speak!" She said, stepping forwards. 

"Madame, please, don't think I speak out of turn, I am only concerned.....for....." She swallowed heavily. "......surely you don't mean to travel alone? With only the nurse to accompany you? The road is so dangerous Milady, and you are rich......vulnerable.....anything could happen......" Her voice lost its conviction and trailed away. 

"I am grateful for your concern, but I have no time to think about protection. I must trust in God to bring me safe to Paris.....I have no choice.....I HAVE to go........" 

Gabrielle made to move away again, but the young woman stayed her, a hand on her sleeve. 

"But when you came here, from Paris, the Red Guard escorted you......the road is long, and hard, there are forests and deserted places, ambushes are common, no one travels without a retinue, and certainly never after dark......" 

The young girl fell to her knees at her mistress's feet, her hands clasped to her chest.  
The face of her employer turned kindly. She reached down and raised the servant up. 

"My protection will be my faith, it will serve as my shield and my armour. The Lord has carried me thus far, through many fires, much pain, fear and darkness. I shall remember the words of the 23rd Psalm and I shall place my trust in Him. Be strong, my dear......you may come with us if you so desire. Together we will reach our destination unmolested. The name of Richelieu will be our safeguard. I have no fear." 

With that as her final word. She rushed to her chamber. 

oOo

Four hundred and fifty miles. 

She could not hope to travel more than thirty miles in a day unless fresh horses could be procured midway, perhaps stretching that to fifty at the very most, even trusting the mercy of the weather. 

Remembering her journey to Durfort from Paris, when her father was sick, it had taken a fortnight, incessant rain, the roads abysmal. 

How could she hope to reach him before he succumbed? 

Steeling herself Gabrielle went to her private chapel. Lighting a candle she fell to her knees, holding clasped in her hand the ring from her finger which her dear Master had given her.  
Mouthing the words of a fervent prayer. Beseeching God to keep safe on the road. 

 

" _Psalmus David Dominus reget me et nihil mihi deerit,_

_In loco pascuae ibi; me conlocavit super aquam refectionis educavit me,_

_Animam meam convertit deduxit me super semitas iustitiae propter nomen suum,_

_Nam et si ambulavero in medio umbrae mortis non timebo mala quoniam tu mecum es virga tua et baculus tuus ipsa me consolata sunt,_

_Parasti in conspectu meo mensam adversus eos qui tribulant me inpinguasti in oleo caput meum et calix meus inebrians quam praeclarus est,_

_Et misericordia tua subsequitur me omnibus diebus vitae meae et ut inhabitem in domo Domini in longitudinem dierum."_

*(The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.

He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.)*

Crossing herself, she sent up the _'Amen'_ , before replacing the ring and hurrying away. 

oOo

The first part of her journey was infinitely harder than she could have possibly imagined.  
Painfully slow, the carriage lurched on its cumbersome way, tossing its three adult occupants around like dried peas in a barrel.  
Georges rode alongside for part of the day, before spurring on ahead to procure fresh horses, in order to speed their travel as far as possible. The tired animals left behind as down payment for those taken.  
This meant that for a good portion of the afternoon the little group were virtually defenceless. 

Here, the main Paris road was heavily wooded for many miles. As the forests of Le Causses and the Cévennes bordered the road. 

The party halted at Saint-Flour before moving on to the small town of Issoire. Reaching Clermont-Ferrand after nightfall, more or less unmolested, more by luck than design.  
However, it was on the road to Bourges that their good fortune finally ran out. 

A group of horsemen. Heavily armed. 

Waylaying the jolting carriage, with a cry of ' _STAND_ ', as a musket shot rent the air. 

Fear gripped the hearts of all but the mistress. 

The snorts and whinnying of the frightened horses did not fill her with dread. Her face determined. Whatever awaited her she was prepared. 

Opening the door of the carriage, Gabrielle stepped out into the road.  
Standing at the neck of the leading rider's mount, she looked up into what she could see of his visage, a scarf being tied around the lower portion, covering the mouth and chin. But the eyes were unmistakable.  
Mademoiselle Durfort knew immediately to whom she was speaking. 

"What is it now?" She asked boldly. "That the King's Musketeers harass and rob lonely defenceless travellers?" 

The horseman gave no reply, but swinging a leg over the pommel he slid down to the ground beside her, one hand menacingly on the hilt of his sword. 

The diminutive Vicomtesse didn't flinch. 

"What do you want with me..... _Athos_?" She challenged. "I assure you I have nothing worth taking." 

Pulling the scarf from his mouth the man gave a sudden hearty laugh. 

"Watch this one Gentlemen." He called over his shoulder. "She's as clever as a jackdaw, with a sharp beak to match." 

Gabrielle relaxed the grip on the small knife she clutched tightly beneath her cape, breathing easy, as the mirth from the assembled company filtered down through the ranks. 

"We are sent along this godforsaken road on a mission to find you milady....!" He smiled warmly, then gesturing behind him at his men...." we are to escort you the rest of the way to Paris....by orders of His Majesty the King!" 

He swept a low bow. 

The indomitable little woman regarded him with both relief and gratitude. 

"Do you have a spare horse Sir?" She enquired. 

"Of course Mademoiselle......but you can change horses at Bourges. Before you continue your journey." 

Mademoiselle Durfort stepped forwards, placing a hand gently on the leather sleeve of the tall Musketeer's jerkin. 

"You mistake my meaning, Athos." She said softly. "I would ride with you alone, under your personal protection the rest of the way.......time is of the essence. Your men can accompany the coach, at a slower pace, with my ladies and the rest. I would ride on far more quickly and cover many more miles on horseback than in the lumbering carriage. If you were willing to accompany me and be my bodyguard that is?" 

The smile faded from the face of the handsome man. 

"A gruelling ride indeed!" He retorted. "For any man, let alone a woman such as yourself." 

"It is fortunate then, that I am worth at least two men." She replied sharply. "I can ride, and I'm stronger than I look." 

Athos gazed upon the defiant face of this young woman. She looked as if a strong breeze might blow her over, and yet......he mused to himself, scratching his chin thoughtfully, she had an inner fire. Her eyes were blazing now, as they regarded him with eager anticipation.  
No wonder she had captured the heart of the Cardinal! 

"Then, Mademoiselle, it would be my honour to escort you. But mark my words, there will be no feather bed at the end of the day if you travel with me. No fripperies or fine fayre. We camp out under the stars, in the woods or in a shepherd's bothy.....and we take only what we can carry." 

"Then let us not stand here bandying words any longer. The way ahead is tough and I would arrive at Le Palais Cardinal as quickly as may be. Lest my Lord should die e'er I reach him. I pray that God will preserve his life till then." 

Taking only a few moments to reassure those who waited fearfully inside the carriage, Gabrielle gave comforting words to her servants. 

"Clothilde, you know what to do. Never let your charge out of your sight. You will be safe on the road now. The King's musketeers will bring you to Paris unharmed. I will be waiting. Take precious care, and God speed." 

Kissing all, she turned, mounted up with great expertise, and rode away. Not once did she look back, nor betray on her face the dreadful wrench in her heart as she left her most precious possession behind. 

oOo

Falling to his knees at the sight of her, taking both her hands in his own and pressing his cheek against them, the faithful Joseph wept and gave grateful thanks. 

"Praise God that you are here safe, Milady." 

The room in which His Eminence lay was all sepia darkness. Drapes closed. Tall wax candles burning. 

Fetid and stuffy, the abode of the dead, or dying. 

An eerie quiet settled there, funereal, a sorrowful wake to a man who yet lived. 

Just. 

Crossing immediately to the bedside, she perched herself next to him, reaching over to take the transparent hand that lay on top of the coverlet. 

"My Lord?" She whispered. 

His fingers were cool to the touch, as she threaded them through her own, giving a little squeeze, the half moon tips of the nails tinged with blue, veins prominent on the back of the knuckles, delicate and paper thin.  
Reaching her other hand forwards she brushed the hair away from his forehead. Sweaty and hot, beaded with tiny drops of perspiration, he stirred at the touch but did not wake. 

The face was sunken. 

Sallow. 

The skin seemingly stretched over the skull. Silver curls matted and damp, lips cracked and dry, his once bright eyes closed and fluttering in his deathly repose. The eyelids translucent, pale pink, lashes sweeping his cheek, as a single tear leaked out and ran a meandering course towards his chin. 

"I am here." She murmured. 

There was no response.

Turning to where Joseph hovered behind her, wringing his hands, her eyes swimming, she spoke.

" _He will not die!"_

But her voice lacked conviction. 

A little nod from the manservant by way of reply. 

Drawing her eyes from her Master with reluctance, she scanned the room. 

Oppressive, rife with the smell of sickness. 

A charnel chamber, devoid of cheer. 

Close to His Eminence's bed was a slatted cot where Joseph slept. Ever ready at the beck and call of his Master. 

As if reading her thoughts, the servant spoke. 

"The King sent Musketeers to guard the Palais, in addition to the Red Guard. We were afraid lest someone should try to gain access, to finish the work they'd started. I sleep here as much to protect as to offer succour.  
The illness came on so suddenly, Milady, he was presiding over the hearing of Countess Ninon de Larroque, who stands accused of witchcraft. Taken suddenly with a fit of sorts, falling to the floor, retching and vomiting and crying out in agony, although he'd eaten nothing that I hadn't partaken of myself."

"And the Kings physician has been treating him?" 

"Yes, Milady. Trusted at least. Mercifully he was purged quickly, then bled, he has visited everyday since, but thinks there is little or no hope." 

Gabrielle frowned.

"No more bleeding." She said firmly. "He is so weak. It will be the death of him for sure." 

Rising, she crossed to the windows, wrenching back the heavy curtains with a flourish, throwing open the shutters.  
Letting in the warm Spring air and bright yellow sunlight.  
The candles guttered and blew out, only tendrils of smoking wick remaining. 

"Joseph.....go down to the gardens, bring some good bunches of sweet smelling herbs.....thyme, rosemary, lavender, we will rid this room of the stench of death before we do anything else."

The old servant's eyes brightened visibly, suddenly there seemed to be hope. Bowing with immense gratitude, his hands clutched together, he backed away and hurriedly left the room. 

"Yes Milady. Right away!" 

With the gentle breeze blowing against his face, The Cardinal opened his dulled eyes languidly, two sunken liquid pools of cyan blue. Blinking against the beams of sunlight, then staring wildly about him, as one woken from a fearsome dream. 

"Sweet Jesu! Am I dead?" He asked the empty air, the voice a thin rasp in the sandpaper throat. 

At the sound Gabrielle rushed to his side, taking his hand in hers and placing a kiss against it. 

"No, my dearest Lord. You are very much alive. And I aim to keep you that way."

Looking into her face, he gave a little sad smile. 

"Ah.....another accursed phantom. Sent by the Devil to taunt me. You are a spectre of one I dearly admire. In a moment you will be gone, like a puff of wind, as always."

Gabrielle swallowed down her rising emotion at his words. 

"No Armand! I'm real, I am no demon. I am come back to you....and if it lies within my power, I will see you well again." 

Leaning forward she stroked the pale cheek gently, letting her fingers caress the brow line, temple then down to the mouth. Stretching to kiss his forehead tenderly. He continued to speak, as if to something that existed only in his imagination. 

"Do you ever wonder what is to come after this life?" 

"Not really My Lord. I am more concerned at present with this one." 

"Pure heresy!" It seemed confirmed in his mind, she must be phantasmagorical. 

"Then why don't you burn me?" With a slight smile she let one hand rest lightly on his chest. Feeling the weakness of the heartbeat beneath the embroidered linen nightshirt he wore. 

"I wouldn't......but be careful O Satan's handmaiden! One day someone else might." 

He laid his left hand over hers, pressing it against his breastbone. 

"I have done terrible things. My account with God is not yet balanced. I'm afraid.....that if I die.....I shall go to Hell......." 

She placed her other hand delicately against his lips. 

"Hush! My Lord.....you must not tire yourself with these maudlin thoughts, they will weigh your spirit down. You are not going anywhere, at least not at present. If anyone deserves the Kingdom of Heaven it is Your Eminence, but don't be in too much of a hurry to get there! Rest now, I will retire to wash and change myself. I have had a long hard journey to reach you. Afterwards we will see what is to be done." 

She made to rise, but he gripped on to her fingers, unwilling to let go. 

"Don't leave me gentle spirit....." He whispered, clutching at her as if in the very throes of death. ".......unlike my recent visions, you bring me at least some crumb of comfort." 

"I will return, and bring you so much more than that. Sleep easy now. I will not be far away. I have answered your call. I will not leave you." 

Her reply seemed to satisfy him, and his eyelids drooped. One faint breath followed another as he fell back into fitful slumber. 

oOo

The blackness into which Armand Jean du Plessis sank each time he fell asleep was like a cavernous abyss from which there was no release or escape. 

Pain seemed to spiral inside him in an endless unrelenting pursuit. Never would he be free of it.  
Condemned to a living Hell.  
A state of purgatory whilst he yet lived. Until finally, one day, his spirit would break, and he would sink and die. At least that was how it seemed to his tortured mind. 

All through his anguished nights he called for her. Beseeching God over and over again. Tormented by visions of her, beautiful and serene before him, only to twist and become a hideous gargoyle, an evil cackling banshee, who taunted him mercilessly, then vanished, leaving him exhausted and weeping, and hurting more than ever.  
He prayed only for death, but his body fought on. 

Such had been his violent suffering. 

Yet somehow this day was different. 

He was dimly aware of light. 

A coolness where there had been only the heat of Hell fire. 

Around his bed and the room which had become his torture chamber, there was a pleasant fragrance. 

Two pairs of arms were sitting him forward with great care, his head rested against the soft, sweetly scented velvet of a woman's costume.  
The head that was so heavy he hadn't the power to hold it up. Cradled with benign gentleness by a tender hand.  
His nightshirt pulled over his head and removed. 

Someone was washing him. 

Cool scented water on a silken linen cloth. 

He could smell rose petals. 

His back, every vertebrae sticking up like the ridge on a crocodile, each nub red raw from laying so long abed. A salve applied to the sores with a featherlight delicacy.  
Hands held his thin arms aloft, the skin there hanging loose where once a bicep had been, as his underarms were soaped, rinsed, then dried. Weak as a child, and no voice to protest.  
The emaciated chest sponged, each rib now a well defined line, resembling a laundresses washboard. Feeling the water trickling down his distended abdomen and sides, a touch so soothing and gentle after so much pain, that it could not possibly be real. 

He was dreaming. 

Naked. 

Yet quite unable to find it within himself to care. 

His hips reduced to bony protuberances, sticking out at odd angles from his torso.  
Laved thoroughly, down between his legs, his thighs, calves, feet by a different hand now, his manservant, as he sat, in a hazy, yet heavenly daydream, propped against the delicate curves of an exquisite body he felt he should know, but somehow couldn't recognise.

Hushed words were spoken to him. After the harsh screams and terror inducing cries, filled with wickedness and hatred that made his lungs ache, all he had heard from himself over the preceding days, this sweet speech was balm. Whispered endearments, the voice of an angel. 

He wept. 

Low, moaning sobs of helplessness.

The sound caught in his throat and almost choked him. A series of gasps, a fit of coughing, salty tears which threatened to swamp him in a tide of emotion borne of relief and gratitude. 

"Shhh! Sweet Armand. You will be well. Lean against me." 

A hand tugged at his head gently. He tucked it into the cleft between the shoulder and perfumed neck.  
The scent was intoxicating. He breathed it in and sighed. Letting go. 

A clean shirt placed carefully over his head, the lace fastened with deft fingers at his throat. 

Laid back, sinking into fresh pillows and crisp bed linen. 

A dent in the mattress as the person who bought this blesséd comfort sat next to him. 

"Gabrielle?" He murmured haltingly. "Is it you? Are you come?" 

"I am here." She replied, taking his hand, she turned to a small tray bought to her by Joseph. 

"You must take a little nourishment. You are so weak. A little milk, sweetened with honey. Nothing more, for your belly cannot tolerate it. We can only pray that your stomach and gut is not permanently eviscerated." 

A spoon was placed against his mouth and he puckered his lips, sucking in the warm liquid. It tasted like sweet nectar, after so much bile and bitter gall. The taste of ambrosia. 

His throat so sore, it felt like the prickle of a thousand thorns, yet the liquid was soothing. He swallowed with a wince. 

"We must build you up slowly. Carefully. A little at a time. It is true you are very weak. But, with patience, you will be strong again." 

She looked into his face kindly, cupping his cheek. His vision blurred, seeing her as through a piece of gauze, indistinct. 

"Is it really my petite souris?" He asked. "Not some jades trick?" 

"Can you not see me Sire? It is I, your Gabrielle." 

"My eyes are dim.....and they hurt me......" 

"Then you must rest them. Sleep now. I will be here when you wake." She squeezed the hand she still held in her own. 

"The boy?" He enquired suddenly, as if the thought had just occurred to him. "Your son.....is he...?"

"All in good time, Your Eminence, all in good time. You are not yet well enough for visitors, and you would not have him see you so sick. He is but a child still. But never fear, you shall see him, when you are better, and much more besides. Now you must rest. You are exhausted. We have a long road ahead of us, and I pray God will see us to the end of it." 

Bending, she kissed his forehead sweetly, and he closed his weary eyes. 

"Sleep Armand. No more bad dreams. I shall not leave your side." 

Only the gentle rise and fall of his chest was his response. 

oOo

Days faded into nights. Each passing in much the same way. 

The physician announced it a miracle that His Eminence the Cardinal still lived and breathed. 

The King himself attended the sick bed, although Armand Jean was sleeping, unaware of his esteemed visitor.  
Luca Sestini asked on numerous occasions to see his old friend, but was denied access.  
Every form of even the slightest activity tired him. He simply wasn't up to it. 

His solace during this time, was the woman who slept in the cot bed beside him. Woke when he woke. Soothed and calmed him when he was beset by agonising cramps or nightmares. Cleaned him if he was soiled, never seeming to mind. Ever patient. Ever diligent.  
Taking great pains with him. 

She and his manservant washed, shaved and kept him clean.

His room was aired and fresh. Smelling of sweet briar, herbs and roses. Spring flowers were placed in a vase on the table to cheer him. 

Spoon fed like a child, propped up with pillows. 

Craning his scrawny neck forwards to sip, as she sat on the bed beside him, a cloth tucked beneath his chin to catch any drips or spills.  
Bending toward him with a little smile, her index finger wrapped in the napkin, she dabbed at his mouth. 

"You have a milk moustache Sire!" She chided, softly. 

Seizing her hand, he pressed it fervently to his lips, then held it against his cheek, tears streaming down his face. 

"Thank God for you!" He whispered. "You are my saviour. My angel of mercy. So dear to me.....don't leave me, I beg of you."

"And you are dearest to me, My Lord. I promised I would not leave your side. I have yet to discover how you ingested the poison, and you are therefore still in danger. For I have no doubt now that you will live, and someone out there would much rather that was not the case." 

"But for you they would have succeeded. I count myself blessed indeed." 

"Come! Eat some more!" She admonished. "E'er it get cold. I made this especially for you, I will be disappointed if you do not finish it." 

As the days passed he was able to take more, his appetite improving daily.  
Warm milk, or a posset with egg, nutmeg and honey at first. Then later a weak broth or potage, with a little chicken or vegetables, put through a sieve so as to aid him in swallowing.  
Finished perhaps with a small amount of bread dipped in wine. 

It was a trial as to whether his stomach would tolerate the morsels of food offered. Often beset with a bout of vomiting.  
A gradual process, but day by day, with her tender care, his condition began, slowly, to improve. 

Gabrielle arranged for The King's chaplain to say Mass in his chamber, so that he should receive Communion. She and Joseph kneeling at his bedside to also receive the Eucharist. 

Partaking of the Holy Sacrament strengthened his spirit. 

That night he slept through without waking. 

oOo

"Tell me of your journey......"

Armand Jean du Plessis was sitting up in bed. 

Behind him, his little Vicomtesse. She, leaning on pillows, legs folded beneath her, he reclining back against her, held in her embrace. 

Relaxing into her warmth, the softness of her breast, her fingers idly stroking through his hair. 

Humming softly to herself as she caressed him. 

He had been up for a short time that morning, washed and attired in a clean, fresh linen nightshirt, he had eaten a small repast, and was now prepared to rest easy. 

Eyes closed, transported by her touch into an almost trance-like state. 

"It was a hard ride, but I had the very best of escorts, My Lord. None other than Athos of the Musketeers." 

His Eminence sat up sharply, his face clouded, eyebrows fierce. 

Ceasing her tender ministrations she regarded him with gentle mirth. 

"You have nothing to fear Master, he was a perfect gentleman. We rode together all the way from Bourges. We slept where we could find shelter, we ate when we could procure victuals. I think the King's Musketeer would be quite happy to have one such as me riding amongst the ranks. He declared that I complained much less than the men!"

"You rode all that way with him...... _alone?"_

Tutting with mild amusement at his apparent pique of jealousy, she pulled his silver head down against her chest again, resuming her petting, her voice remaining calm and serene.

"Needs must, My Lord. Had I tarried with the carriage, I would have arrived in time to attend your funerary rites.......as it was, we made good time. The Lord Athos rides hard and fast, and that is just as well......for both of us." 

There was silence for some minutes, as The Cardinal processed this revelation. 

"Then I would see him.....it appears I owe him a debt of gratitude for bringing you safely to me." 

A knock on the door broke into their moment of quiet peace, Joseph entered. Neither Master nor mistress attempted to move, and it made the old retainer's heart glad to see them reclining thus, cosseted close together. 

"Your Eminence, Luca Sestini has asked to be allowed to see you. He has requested a visit many times My Lord." 

"You may send him in to me........" 

Easing himself forwards with a wince of discomfort, Richelieu sighed, he would much rather lay here in tranquility with Gabrielle beside him, but duty was never far away, even for a sick man. 

"........and ask Athos the Musketeer to come hither. I would speak with him also." 

Gabrielle removed herself from her comfortable position behind her Lord, easing him to rest himself back into the pillows. 

"I will leave you to talk, Sire, but pray do not tire yourself." She made to move away, but he stayed her gently, his fingers curled around her wrist. 

"Would you depart unkissed?" He enquired with a wry smile. 

Leaning in towards him, she presented her cheek, but his lips brushed her mouth instead. 

"Someone must be feeling better!" She laughed, trailing a gentle hand along his shoulder as she made to leave the room. 

Luca was shown into the chamber just as The Cardinal closed his eyes, lost in the reverie of that shared moment between himself and his lady. 

His Eminence was only dimly aware of the swish a hooded cape as the monk like figure crossed the room, a breeze of air close to his face, as the next moment his frightened eyes opened and caught the flash of a long bladed knife.  
As the Jesuit lunged forward, Richelieu, barely having a second to think, grabbed the two pronged fork from his dinner plate, in a desperate bid to save himself, clutching at the sleeves of his assailant and crying out, he had no strength for a fight against a fit and healthy man such as this. 

Rending the air, a resounding crack and sparks from a musket, echoing around the walls. 

The emissary froze for one terrifying moment, poised in the very act of stabbing, before he crumpled with a groan and fell to the floor. 

Dead. 

Hearing the sound of gunfire Gabrielle rushed back into the chamber, heedless of any danger, in time to see the would be assassin fall. 

"ARMAND!" She screamed. 

She flew to his side, as wheezing rattling breaths ripped from her Master's throat, supporting his weight as he tried to sit up. 

"You're late!" He gasped, looking up at the Musketeer who now stood over him. 

Athos threw back his head and laughed heartily. 

oOo

The room was cleared. 

A pool of deep red viscous blood seeped through the boards on the floor which Joseph was commissioned to scrub away. 

Athos and Richelieu sat opposite each other at the little table in the Cardinal's chamber. The one bright and animated, the other worn and grey and deathly pale. 

"I think we may have found our poisoner." Athos remarked, sipping wine which Gabrielle had poured for him. 

"But how? There is no way he can have administered it......." The young woman stood beside her Lord, a cup of wine held in her own, still trembling, hands. 

His Eminence gestured to her. 

"My dear, pass me my Reliquary. I must pray for my deliverance once again it seems." 

Turning, his mistress picked up an inlaid cherry wood box, from where it rested on the side table, passing it to her Master with a slight bow. 

Taking it, he opened the lid and moistening his fingers with his tongue, he made to touch the relic, prior to bringing his hand to his lips, then forehead and cheeks, making the sign of the cross. With  
a deft and sudden movement, a strong hand was placed over his own.  
Squeezing the long fingers. 

"What is this?" Athos asked, not relinquishing his grip. 

"A Reliquary. It contains the knee bone of St Anthony, a gift from Rome.....I must ask Him to intercede......" 

The musketeer snatched the box away. Sniffing the contents suspiciously. Then letting out a disgusted cough.

"Knee bone? My arse!" He spat. "THIS is the source of your poison! How many times a day did you use this precious gift?" 

Richelieu regarded the casket with a mixture of horror and disbelief. 

"Many times." He whispered. 

"At the trial of Ninon? _Speak_!" The voice was raised urgently.

"Yes! Yes! Several times that day!" 

The Cardinal sank back into the chair, passing a hand across his face. His mistress moved to his side and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, even as he began to slide to the floor. 

_"Athos! Help me!_ " 

Gabrielle held him fast as he collapsed, sinking down with him.  
Together they lifted and carried him to his bed.

oOo

_*Conversation with a messenger. Sent for by Richelieu......_

_"What happened to the Jesuit?"_

_"He has been cremated. His ashes put into this casket, and you will return it to Rome. With a message."_

" _A message, Eminence?_ " 

" _Say that Cardinal Richelieu sends his compliments to his Holiness, and that if he wishes to send any more envoys, that they will be returned to him in the same condition!"_ *

 

oOo

"I assume you left the boy behind?" Armand Jean lay on his back, a shaft of morning sunlight playing across the large bed, staring up at the ceiling, thinking out loud. 

Gabrielle was with him, in naught but her shift, curled close at his side. 

During the night he had woken, calling to her, begging for her comfort, she came, as she always did, crawling under the sheets beside him, and remaining there. 

"You assume incorrectly. He is here. Safely housed. He is with Clothilde, his nurse, and my maid. You asked after him, do you not remember? I assured you that he would come to you when you were a little better........" 

"I would see him now......." 

"My dearest Lord, are you sure? You are not strong, you have only recently begun to leave your bed.....he is but a child, with a child's energy, I would not have him tire you......" 

The man shifted in her arms, turning himself, looking earnestly into her lovely face. 

"He is my son.......although none but you will ever hear me say it.......please my sweet Mademoiselle, I beseech you, let me see the little boy......" 

Cupping his cheeks in her hands, she raised herself and kissed him, the kiss strengthening suddenly as he pressed himself closer to her, unwilling to break the connection. She could feel the heat coursing through him, his hands warm against her back, the delicious tickle of his beard against her chin. He whispered to her as his mouth followed a path down her throat and neck. 

"Oh, my dear little one....." He murmured, his lips against the coolness of her skin. "I wish I had all my strength again......what I wouldn't do if I had....." 

Her hand strayed south to touch his manhood, but his fingers closed over hers, preventing her, although his mouth continued its course. 

"Oh my Cherie!" He whispered, his mouth close to her breast. "How I want you, but my body has other ideas......I cannot.......I cannot........"

All too soon his stamina failed him, he drew back, panting, his face flushed with desire, looking into her eyes which were fastened wholly on him, filled with such love and affection, it made his heart beat hard within his chest. 

"Hush! Do not despair. We will be one again.......never fear......have patience!" 

"No, my souris. The desire is there, but my body refuses to comply. Leave me now.....bring me the child, let me see him......I ask you......" 

"My dear sweet Armand." She whispered, still breathless herself from the passionate touch of his lips. "I would not keep my son from you.......you shall see him......and more besides. Let me up and I will fetch him to you." 

 

oOo

The door to the chamber opened slowly. 

This wonderful young woman, on whom he doted, entered shyly. Transporting him back to the day she had first been summoned to his presence, a bashful, frightened young whelp. Now, although still demure, she possessed a calm assurance, a quick wit and sharp intelligence, more mature and even more stunningly beautiful than ever. 

How far she had come. 

At her side, the youngster. Not four years old. Half hiding behind her skirts. Fists clutching the material.  
Peeping out, a long, narrow face, high forehead. Light brown wavy hair. A long nose, just like his own.  
The resemblance was quite startling.

His mother bent and whispered to the boy, who stepped forward boldly. Holding the gaze of the grey man with a frank and disarming honesty. Just like his _maman._

Scrambling up onto the large bed, at his Lord's invitation, crawling across the coverlet.  
For a moment or two he regarded the rather formidable clergyman who sat propped before him, as if weighing him up, deciding what to do next.  
Seemingly reaching a decision, he lurched forward suddenly, little chubby arms flung around the taut sinewy neck, a rosy, healthy cheek pressed against the sunken, pale one. 

"Grandpère!" He declared, in his merry piping voice. 

"Henri!" His father replied, brokenly. 

Gabrielle slipped out into the corridor. Leaning against the wall for a few seconds, one hand against her breast, to collect herself. The sight of the two of them together affected her deeply. Unable to quell her sobs, she made her way, stumbling, back to her own room. 

It was sometime later that she returned. Entering unseen and unheard by man or boy. 

The little scene before her almost stopped her heart.  
Henri Jean Armand seated in his namesake's lap, on a large chair beside the hearth. All rapt concentration.  
Reading aloud, his Catechism in Latin, following the script with a stubby finger, as his proud parent looked on leaning over his shoulder, aghast at his ability. 

Glancing up, his eyes dewy with admiration and wonder, he beheld his own _'petite souris'._

His gaze roamed from her lovely face, down to her side. There, on her hip, she held a baby. 

Some eight or nine months old.  
Almost identical in looks to the one who was now nestled so comfortably and confidently into his chest, his attention given over wholly to the book of prayer held in his small hands. 

Armand Jean Du Plessis stared, uncomprehending at first, staring from mother to infant, then to the child in his own arms, then back again. 

_"What......._?" He began, stuttering with confusion. 

With her eyes cast down, as if in shame, Gabrielle moved closer. 

"I couldn't tell you my dear Lord.....I didn't know how to, not even in a letter. But this is Louis François Armand......and I am blessed to have him, he is my gift from God, like his brother." 

Seeing his dearest maman, little Henri hopped down from the priestly knees and ran to her. 

Her Master reached out his arms to the babe, taking him from his mother, holding him tight against his torso.  
The child cooed with glee, fascinated, his small hands reached up to the moustache, the beard and then the earlobes, tugging on them, before his fingers disappeared, experimentally, inside the mouth, receiving wet kisses for his pains. 

"He is so strong and healthy.....like his older sibling......" His voice was unreliable, a quaver in the timbre of it. 

Gabrielle was crying. 

She was not sure why. 

Be it from relief that her son was apparently accepted, as was his elder, or to see the child united with his father for the first time, or perhaps for the great love she bore the man who had held them both so close to him. 

"It was after you came to stay at Durfort, My Lord. When I was sure I was again with child, I was so frightened. I didn't know what people would say. I went to St Teresa's to hide my confinement. It seems to be accepted that he is my son, but no one needs to know from whence he came." 

"And you named him Louis François?" The man looked down into the pudgy little face, the babe was becoming sleepy, resting his head against the chest of the man comfortably, his eyes drifting closed, sucking diligently on his own fingers, his brother too, tired from his reading, had already fallen asleep where he sat. 

"Yes......Louis François Armand. For the King, for my father and for the boy's papa." She replied.  
"Did I do wrong?" 

"François was my father's name also." Armand Jean held out his hand to her with a gentle smile, she took it, and their fingers were threaded together. 

"And Henri Jean Armand.......this little lad." He bent and kissed the top of the dozing tousled head of his elder son affectionately. "He is named for my dead brother and for myself.....how could that be wrong?" 

A grateful sob was her initial reply. 

"I know that you cannot acknowledge them publicly, dear Armand, and I know that they are illegitimate, they are bastards as far as the wider world is concerned. But they _are_ loved.....by me.....and they are wanted. They are my gifts. My pride and my joy. I gave them each a name I thought they could live up to. One day, I hope they will make me proud." 

Laying the now slumbering infant to one side, Richelieu gathered his mistress into his embrace, pulling her across his lap. 

"Oh my dear one! My petite souris! You know I will do everything in my power to help and protect them....Henri is astonishingly clever for one so young. You have schooled him well. His Latin is as advanced as any twelve year old. He will go far. But......my darling mademoiselle......I wish you would take my previous advice, and marry." 

He held his fingers against her lips as she began to protest, his eyes were filled with infinite sadness. 

"I know where your loyalties lie........but I wish you would let me find a man who would love and esteem you, as I can only do behind closed doors. One who could protect you and nurture the boys until they are old enough to go to school and make their way in the world.  
My influence is, necessarily, always hidden, I cannot be a proper father to them.....nor yet a husband to you......it is not possible. I will not live long enough to see them grow to their full maturity, or reach their potential, and I am afraid that once I die, they will be without a suitable guardian. It would ease my mind to know that you were all safe, and properly provided for." 

"Don't ask it of me. Please Sire. How can I love just any man? When there is you?" 

Armand pushed her away, his face clouding. His tone turned harsh. 

"So you would stubbornly attach yourself to a sick old man? One who cannot even declare his affection for you? Throw away what remains of your life, live it out in loneliness and regret for what cannot be? Do you think that is what I want for you?" 

Gabrielle's eyes filled with tears, brimming and threatening to spill. 

"You are not old......." She began, her voice a whisper. 

"I AM old, compared to you. Weak and weary. My body cannot even stir itself to intimacy! What use am I to you.........?" His bitter retort stung her. With dismissive a wave of his hand he continued. 

".........call your nurse. Take the boys and yourself away. Leave me in peace for God's sake!" 

He sank back into the chair, as his mistress did his bidding so far as fetching Clothilde to take the slumbering youngsters to their beds. 

The children gone, she, however, refused to leave him. Down on her knees at his feet. 

"You will regain your strength. You will be vigorous again......." Her hand sought his, but he pulled it back. 

"Oh, my sweet little mouse. No matter what happens, I'll always remember those times, those nights, but I am so tired. In every bone and sinew. Please, my dear......if you have even a shred of the affection you profess, please leave me be for a while. I need to rest." 

Still refusing to be parted from him, helping him to stand, she saw him to his bed. 

Her voice finally broke then, tears flowing freely. 

"Please! Sweet Armand.....I beg you......do not send me away......" 

Seeing her distraught expression, His Eminence relented. Allowing her to settle herself down under his arm, her head tucked comfortably beneath the cleft between shoulder and chin, as he sighed and gave in to the blissful solace she bought him.

"You will soon tire of me......" He choked in reply. 

_"Never_!" She replied earnestly. 

oOo

The spring weather that year continued fair. 

Days of increasingly warm sunshine. 

The gardens of the Palais Cardinal flourished and were beautiful. 

Gabrielle spent much time there, she did not like to be cooped up inside. 

Sometimes her Master would walk with her, leaning heavily on her arm, but mostly she was alone, as he was preoccupied with affairs of State. 

Although he continued to be as attentive and kind as ever, there was a subtle change in their relationship.  
A certain distance. 

She was no longer invited into his bed.

He was affectionate and gentle with her, as he'd always been, but she sensed he was pulling away and that there was little she could do to prevent it. 

She was fearful. 

To cling to him too vociferously now would drive a wedge between them and force them further apart.  
So she bore it with as much dignity as she could muster. Although her heart was sore, and the feeling of impending loss a heavy one to bear.

Armand Jean Du Plessis de Richelieu, slowly but surely regained a little strength.  
His constitution would always be precarious, but he was as well as he could be, in no small measure, due to the diligent care of his mistress.

He knew that he would never be what he once was, that his lifespan would not be overly long.  
The most overriding fear in his heart was that the woman he had come to value so highly, the mother of two children from his illicit liaison, should be left unprotected once he was gone. 

To that end, he sought to gently draw back from her, let her down with as much delicacy as he could, yet still somehow, provide for her. 

He was watching her now. 

From the window of his private chamber. 

Seated below him in the shade of the lilac. 

Reading studiously, unaware of his scrutiny.

At her feet romped her two sons. 

His heart gave a lurch. They were such fine boys. Robust. Healthy. Bright. 

His, but not his. 

Ever a schemer, he had been making plans. He could not allow sentiment to get in the way. 

What he could not foresee however, was that his careful strategies would be wholly unnecessary and that Fate had ideas of its own.

Turning away, lest he be overwhelmed by the great sadness and loss he felt when seeing her thus, he went back to his papers and the cares of the day. 

oOo

"May I join you Madame?" 

Gabrielle glanced up from her psalter to see a gentleman advancing along the path. Closing her book, keeping a finger in the place, she regarded the young man with a look, first of indifference, then of shock and surprise. 

He had the look of her Master. Startlingly so. 

The high forehead, a long aquiline nose, sensual mouth. His hair was chestnut brown and was worn quite long, but fell in waves and curls, brushed back from his face.  
Tall and rangy, with large expressive hands. 

"Good lord!" She whispered as he came closer. 

_Her own dearest Lord! But young again! How could this be?_

Taking his place at her side the young man smoothed down his jerkin and stretched out his long legs in front of him, crossing his booted feet at the ankles with a nonchalant air. 

Smiling at the two boys frolicking on the grass close by.

"Fine young men!" He remarked, nodding towards them. 

Mademoiselle Durfort could not tear her gaze away. 

Receiving no reply to his comment, he turned to look at her. 

The eyes! 

Like the sky and the sea rolled into one. 

The Vicomtesse stared on, unable to hide her astonishment. 

"I am François." He smiled amiably. "De Vignerot de Pont-Courlay, it's a grand title but it doesn't mean much!" 

Gabrielle swallowed. 

"And you are?" He continued, unabashed. 

Struggling to collect herself, the lady replied. 

"Vicomtesse Durfort......Gabrielle." 

At the mention of her name the gentleman gave a clap of his hands. 

"Ah! Mademoiselle!" His face lit up. " I have heard so much about you! You are held in high esteem here it seems." 

The young woman was taken aback, but quite unable to formulate an answer.

"So....this must be Henri and Louis?" He indicated her two son's. "This is a merry meeting indeed!" 

His face seemed so open and honest. The eyes twinkled and danced as he spoke. Almost frightening in their intensity.  
Gabrielle found it difficult to focus. 

They spoke together for some moments, or rather François spoke and she listened. Enthralled. 

Clever and articulate. A ready smile. 

Eventually he stood to take his leave. Bowing most chivalrously. Taking her hand and raising to his lips. 

"Adieu, mademoiselle!"

Kissing it lightly, before swinging round and striding away. 

_Ye Gods! Even the walk was the same!_

oOo

"There is someone I would like you to meet Cherie." 

The warm day had slipped into a cool evening.  
His Eminence had sent for her to be at his side.

They sat together over a glass of wine. 

Her Lord drawn almost on top of the fire, although it was not particularly cold. 

"Sire, let me fetch a blanket for your knees. I swear you are shivering. What ails you?" 

"Nothing little one. Other than these ancient bones which ache ceaselessly and refuse to be warm." 

"Sweet Armand! Tell me what I can do to ease your care?" She rose, moving to his side, her hand on his shoulder. 

Bringing his own hand up, he covered hers, winding their fingers together. 

"There is a young man...." He continued, ignoring her request. "........his name is Jean-Baptiste. He is a marquis, and a fine esquire. I have asked him to come to court. He is most eager to meet you."

She frowned at his words, but brushed them aside as the memory of her earlier meeting came back to her. 

"Oh! I met someone today." She interjected. "It was a most singular experience! A young gentleman, about my age......but he reminded me so of you that I thought it was a vision from the past, of you as you must once have been!" 

The Cardinal paused. 

"Ah......you have undoubtedly encountered François?" 

"YES!" Her reply was eager and animated. " It was extraordinary, quite took me by surprise." 

"My nephew......" 

Her eyebrows raised and she let out a gasp. 

".......son of my dear elder sister Françoise. She died when he was yet a small child. A gentle soul......you remind me of her greatly, as does he......" His voice was wistful, as his mind was cast back. 

".......I have been told the likeness is strong, it is a while since I saw him of course, I only heard two days ago that he'd come to court. I've been too busy......." 

Gabrielle sat forwards. 

"My Lord! It's uncanny. The features, the mien, the gait, _everything_.....was your sister much alike to you?" 

"She was. Henri, Alphonse and I were chalk and cheese as brothers. But Françoise, Isabelle and Nicole, my sisters, and myself were all peas from the same pod."  
His thoughts were transported, and he smiled slightly as the childhood memories flooded in.

"He is very handsome." She responded warmly. 

"So I'm told." Came the reply. 

oOo

The process was a gradual one. 

Vicomtesse Gabrielle de Durfort was being courted. 

No more, no less. 

The young François seemed to appear unbidden whenever she took her daily walk, and would fall into step at her side, chatting amiably.  
At Mass he contrived to be next to her in the pew, where he could pass her the hymnal, take her hand as she knelt to say the _Kyrie Eleison_ , or generally be of use to her.  
He also, suddenly, spent a great deal of time with his Uncle, in the hope of seeing her. 

Mademoiselle Durfort had never experienced courtship in the true sense of the word. 

With His Eminence The Cardinal there had been little or no romancing as such.

From his first insistent kiss he had enflamed her. There was no time nor inclination on his part for the chivalrous niceties before he had taken her into his bed.  
Her Lord was a man who knew what he wanted and reached out to take it.  
She'd been a pawn in a dangerous game then. No more than one of a string of such mistresses he'd taken.  
The fact that she had become so dear to him, and she so devoted to her Master in return, was down more her own deep seated loyalty and sense of duty at first, than either love or lust.  
As for himself, he had never, in his wildest dreams, anticipated becoming so profoundly attached to this brave little woman. 

He showed her great kindness, was gentle and affectionate with her, and she adored him for it. 

She had borne two children, so astonishingly like their father that there could be absolutely no doubt of the seed from which they came. It somehow strengthened the bond. 

He was, and would always remain, her first love.  
Her first lover too, and thus far, the only lover she had ever known. 

Now she was being wooed with great finesse. 

With a subtlety which surprised even his uncle. 

The Richelieu eyes saw everything. 

Any pangs of jealousy he may have felt were soon quashed, by the certainty that his young nephew was in earnest, and that despite her strong attachment to Him, she was nevertheless, drawn to this handsome man. 

No little look escaped the Cardinal's notice. No slight shy smile, or brush of the hand. 

Gabrielle, for her part, remained somewhat aloof, no doubt torn as to where her loyalties lay. Blushing most prettily when she was paid a compliment. Turning her head away if she deemed he'd strayed too close.  
It almost amused the older man to observe them. 

It was a rare afternoon at leisure. 

Armand Jean walked the gravel paths through the garden in the warm sunshine. 

Quite a scene met his eyes. 

His nephew, playing with the two boys, HIS boys, a robust and noisy game of rolling over and over on the grass, as their mother looked on, the happy flush in her cheek unmistakable. 

Seeing his approach she rose and hurried immediately to his side. 

"My Lord! It is so good to see you out in the air." She took his arm gently, allowing him to lean against her.  
Walking him to the wooden bench and settling him there, her hand holding his and resting it in her lap.

Young Henri ran to his knee, tugging the lace of his sleeve.  
"Come and play Grandpėre!" 

"No! Not I! I am too old for these games. Go! Join your brother.....perhaps François will give you a horse ride.....would you François?" 

The younger man smiled, then saluted comically before sweeping baby Louis up into his arms and walking briskly away across the lawns to where a small pony was stabled. Little Henri tripping along gaily at his side. 

"He is so like my dear sister!" His Eminence mused. 

"The boys like him." She replied, as she shaded her eyes from the sun, watching them go. Their merry laughter filtering back to her as they went. 

"Do you?" His hand gripped hers more tightly, as he sought her eye. 

"My Lord......I......." Gazing pointedly down at their clasped fingers. Bringing her other hand over and capturing his between both. 

"Only, if I had to let you go Cherie, it couldn't be to a nicer or more eminently suitable young man....." 

She raised her head, turning towards her beloved Master. His free hand straying from chin to cheek, caressing it lightly, bending to allow his lips to touch hers.  
When he drew back she was almost gasping for want of air. 

Her breast rising and falling beneath her bodice, as she fought the tide of sensations she was feeling. 

"Oh my sweet Lord!" She whispered. " My dearest Armand.......it's you I love, I always will."

"My question remains. Do you like François?" He repeated. 

"Yes, My Lord. God forgive me! I do. Is it possible......?" She looked about her in wild confusion. 

".......that I should be drawn to him, and yet still adore you with such passion. I would give everything I possess to be elsewhere.....I wish we were warm in your bed, and you were holding me close, in your arms, I miss that so much." 

"I miss it too, souris, but I cannot be one with you like that again. That time is over for us and must remain a blissful memory. But you could have that again......with François. He would keep my little mouse warm at night!" 

Gabrielle flushed crimson. Casting her eyes down to her feet in shame at the thought. 

Tears began to come, and without further words she rose, gathered up her skirts and ran off down the gravel path, along the terrace and into the Palais. 

The Cardinal watched her go with a sigh and a sad shake of his head. His jaw set, the muscle there working furiously. 

oOo

 

Some time afterwards he could spy the children returning, with his nephew in tow, one child hopping along at his feet, the other giggling as he rode piggy back. 

With an _'oof'_ of exhaustion he seated himself on the bench next to his uncle. 

"Where is the lady Gabrielle?" He asked, wiping a trickle of sweat from his brow. 

François pulled little Louis onto his lap. His elder brother stood beside the knee of His Eminence, his small hands resting on the man's thigh, looking up earnestly into his face. 

"She has retired indoors." He replied tartly. 

"You look sad Grandpère.......where is Maman?" Asked young Henri innocently, still regarding the older man with some reverence. 

_"I am not your Grandpère_!" Richelieu snapped. "You are not to call me that! You hear?" 

His voice was raised, eyes blazing, the boy slunk back, fear and confusion in his eyes. 

_"Uncle_!" François chided. "Don't frighten the boy! It's not his fault, he doesn't understand, how could he? He calls you that because he thinks that you are what a 'Grandfather' looks like, not because he thinks you are his grandpère. He is such a dear child, and so fiercely bright, he looks up to you, is all." 

Armand Jean sank back against the wooden seat. 

His son screwed a knuckle into one eye, trying not to show he was close to tears. 

The grey face softened. Melted. The eyes kind once more as the flash of anger faded.

"Come....Henri....here....." He held out his arms. 

Unsure for a moment the youngster hesitated, then crawled onto the lap, settling himself against the thick black leather of the man's jerkin. Nestling into the chest for comfort. Fingering the large gold cross which dangled on a chain around the priestly neck. 

"I'm sorry, Sire." He murmured. "So very sorry I made you angry." 

The long fingers smoothed back the curls on the boy's head. 

"I'm not angry child. Just tired. You must go and find your mother. She has gone inside."

The boy dropped an unexpected kiss on the pale cheek, scrambling down, and running off towards the house. 

His father looking after him with a fond but sad expression. 

"What thinks you of the Vicomtesse?" He demanded of his nephew bluntly. 

The younger man drew in a sharp breath. 

"She's a fine young woman. She is a good mother, loyal, loving and beautiful. She is dutiful, pious and true........" He paused. "......... _and she belongs wholly and completely to you_.........what more can I say of her?" He replied honestly. 

"You love her?" His Eminence pursued. 

"Honestly? What do you think? From the moment I first received a glance from her......." He turned to face his uncle, questioning, almost challenging the older man. Blue eyes met blue eyes. 

Gaze locked and held strongly for several seconds, before the Cardinal diminished. 

"Then take her. Ask for her hand.......make her your wife. Love her with all your heart and soul, François......" 

"But........" The young man stammered. 

".........keep her safe, and the boys.....adopt them as your own......be a father to them, give them your name......the name of Du Plessis, and De Richelieu........as my sister's son you are entitled to use both.  
Care for her and them as if your very life depended upon it......never do anything to hurt her, on pain of death, or give her cause to doubt you........I'm asking you......not as a man of God to a supplicant.....but as an Uncle to one I look upon almost as a son. Man to man.  
Scion of my beloved sister......

 _Do it François_.....please....

.......you have my blessing." 

Before the astonished François could formulate a reply, his Uncle was gathering his cloak around himself, rising, before walking stiffly away, slowly and deliberately down the path. 

He did not look back. 

oOo

The whole court was preparing for Holy Week.  
It was the most important week in the church calendar.  
A joyous Easter Sunday Mass was to be said at the Notre Dame cathedral, attended by the royal couple, and other dignitaries, following the solemnity of Christ's Passion and Good Friday. 

Gabrielle saw very little of her Cardinal, he was extremely busy, and although she knew he was not yet fully returned to rude health, there was little more she could do for him. 

She was painfully aware that their's was now a friendship, that they were no longer lovers. It caused her a great deal of distress. 

François, however, continued to appear at regular intervals, the two met almost daily. 

Mostly they would sit quietly in the gardens, watching the children play. Sometimes, if it was wet, he would seek her out in the library or at her devotions at Chapel. 

Occasionally they rode out together. 

There had been no more between them other than a chaste touch of the arm when he helped her mount up, or he would take her hand in his, at parting, and kiss the back of it delicately.

"Farewell for now, sweet Lady." He would say. 

It was his courtly manner and respectful demeanour, this gentleness, this restrained approach that attracted her. 

The man took after his own mother, who, by all reports, was the mildest and most gentle of creatures herself.  
Gabrielle found herself looking forward to their little meetings and trysts. 

His company was not unlike that of her Lord in many ways.

Learned, a good conversationalist, well read. They talked of many things; the new strides being made in astronomy, science, medicine, knotty theological questions, or art and music. 

In short, he delighted her. 

For his part, François found this lovely woman to be a most intelligent and quick witted companion. He also became inordinately fond of her two boys, and knowing their parentage endeared him towards them from the very first.  
The Richelieu likeness was so startling, although it was never, ever spoken of or even mentioned in passing either at court or amongst the household.

She was his idea of the perfect partner, and so it was, that the young gallant made up his mind to ask if the beautiful Vicomtesse Durfort would do him the honour of becoming his wife. 

oOo

There was a slight drizzle as the crowd emerged from the hallowed walls of the ancient and magnificent Cathedral.  
Bells clamoured, sending their peel upwards towards the heavens. 

As the chief celebrant, His Eminence the Cardinal waited patiently at the Portal of the Last Judgement entrance at the Western end, to greet the distinguished congregation.

Fine carriages swung across Le Pont de Notre Dame, carrying their occupants away from the Ile de la Cité and back into the centre of Paris. 

Mademoiselle Durfort held his eye for the merest second as she took his proffered hand and kissed the ring of office he always wore, as all the supplicants did.  
A slight nod was all she received before he was turning to the person following her. 

Drawing the hood of her cape over her head against the rain shower, she walked away from the massive gothic towers of the Western Facade to see Joseph, waiting dutifully for her beside a smart carriage, head bowed slightly. 

" _Joseph!_ Are you here for me? How thoughtful and kind you are!" 

Opening the door to the coach, the manservant took her hand to help her inside.

"His Eminence insisted Milady." He replied. 

Blushing heavily, she took her seat, smoothing her skirts. 

"Well, _he_ is kind too." She declared. "No doubt he has many much more important cares on his mind this Holy day!"

"A great many Madame........no doubt we shall not see him return until evening. He tires so easily these days. It is a cause for constant concern. Although I would not have him know I said so."

He coloured slightly at his own indiscretion, but a gentle hand was laid on his arm. 

"He will not hear it from me." She said softly. " Your love for your Master does you credit, Joseph. Never forget that." 

"Thank you Madame. I appreciate your words." 

The door was closed and the vehicle jolted forwards. It's occupant sat back against the padded leather of the seat, with a sigh.

oOo

"Madame, a gentleman is here. He wishes to see you."  
Gabrielle raised her eyes from the book she was reading, or rather purporting to read, since she had not turned a page for fifteen minutes. 

Her boys were with their nurse and her quiet reading time had become a dream filled reverie, in which the contents of the volume did not feature large. 

"Who is it?" She enquired, with a frown, a little annoyed that her thoughts had been thus broken. 

"De Vignerot de Pont-Courlay, Milady." Came the reply. 

The face softened, an almost inaudible intake of breath. 

"Send him in. Bring us some refreshment, then you can leave us. Thank you Maria." 

Seated opposite each other. 

The lady on one side with her hands resting demurely in her lap. Eyes cast down to them.

Her visitor perched on the edge of his chair on the other, a small table between them. 

"Forgive the intrusion, mademoiselle. But I wished very much to talk to you.......may.....may I call you Gabrielle?" 

Her eyes flicked to his face and she gave a little smile. 

"You may. It is good to see you François." 

An eager smile spread across his face at her words. 

"I've been wanting to talk to you properly for a while......but somehow, I couldn't, or felt I shouldn't.  
I wasn't sure if my conversation would be welcome to you, and I would not like to cause you distress." 

A little flush filled her cheeks, yet she remained still and calm. 

"Gabrielle, I am conscious of the love you bear for my Uncle, I know it will never diminish. But I wish very much to tell you......." He paused, swallowing heavily.  
She was watching him now, her eyes fixed upon his, her breast rising and falling with increasing rapidity as he spoke.

Standing, the young man crossed the space separating them and went down on one knee at her side, his hand reaching to her lap and taking one of hers gently. 

".....I wish to tell you, how much I ardently admire you. Esteem you. Love you. I wish to ask you, if, it were at all possible.....that you could see your way clear.......if you could......could love me, even a little.....in return." 

Before she could either protest, or accede, he plunged on. 

"I know I am not my Uncle. But I love you every bit as deeply as he, although he can never own it.  
I confess I have done so from our very first meeting, and it has only grown stronger by the day, the week, the month. Until I can think of little else. Oh, my dearest Gabrielle......I would be so honoured......the happiest of men......if you could consent to accept my troth, take my hand, and say you'll be my wife?" 

Loosing her hand from his, she leaned forward, cupping his fair cheek with her fingers. 

"My dear gentle François, you have been nothing but kindness and care to me, and to the boys also. They adore you. I have found myself increasingly drawn towards you, in spite of myself.  
Please know that your proposal is not unwelcome to me, but I would ask you to give me a little time......to consider.  
I am aware that I am not a good match for you. I have been the mistress of the most powerful man in the kingdom, second only to the King himself, I am the mother of two bastard children by him, I am soiled goods François, no matter how you look at it.......I abide under His roof. I am bought and paid for, kept by His beneficence. People do not speak it to me aloud, or while he is near, but they say it behind their hands.  
You could do so much better for yourself.....have you considered that?"

Turning his face to the side, he placed a delicate kiss against her palm. 

"Of course I have. But there isn't a lady in this court who is really fit to call herself a true lady, who has not dallied with the menfolk, or whored herself to the highest bidder, who is without stain, chaste and pure. Not one. None who is fit to stand in front of you and judge you.  
Jesus tell us, _'let he who is without sin, cast the first stone_ '.....they are hypocrites, and I don't care for any of them. There is not one amongst them who can match you, for looks, for intellect, or for devotion and discretion. You are more a Lady than all of them put together.  
Do not rush with your answer, mademoiselle. Take all the time you need. Just know that I would love, protect and care for you until my dying breath. I will give the boys my name, I will be as if a father to them, and perhaps, if God is kind to us, we may have a child of our own, to love and cherish.....I will leave you now.......thank you for hearing me.......I will hold you here always." 

Taking her hand he bought it from his cheek and rested it against his beating heart, then held it to his lips to kiss it. Before rising, bowing low, and taking his leave. 

oOo

Fortified by a large glass of wine, Gabrielle made her way through the darkening corridors towards the Cardinal's privy chamber. 

The inner sanctum. 

Where only a privileged few were admitted. 

She _had_ to speak to him, if only he would consent to allow her access.  
Desperately seeking reassurance that she was making the right decision in accepting the proposal. 

Candles had been lit in metal brackets along the walls at intervals, as evening fell, casting eerie looming shadows.  
The breeze of air from her skirts as she hurried passed cause them to fan and flicker precariously, but their light was not to be extinguished. 

Reaching the studded door, she knocked gently. 

It was Joseph who answered. 

"Please excuse me Joseph. Is it possible to see His Eminence? I realise he may be tired, or about to retire, but I would beg just a few moments of his time." 

Opening the door wider, the manservant, moved to one side. 

"I will enquire of my Lord, milady. Will you step inside?" 

She watched, biting her lip, as he padded away, knocking on a further, inner door and entering quietly, closing it softly behind him. 

He soon returned. 

"His Eminence will see you directly, Madame. Would you follow me?" 

A little gasp of relief left her, as she bowed slightly before trotting in his wake.  
She was shown inside and the portal pulled to behind her. 

Her Lord was standing, in just his breeches and undershirt, barefoot, his long fingers resting upon the mantle above the fireplace.  
The red glow from the embers illuminating his tired face. 

Gabrielle remained motionless just inside the door, her own face pale in contrast. Hands held tightly together in front of her. 

Looking up, he regarded her in silence for a few seconds, she did not dare trust herself to speak.

Eventually, he turned fully and took a single step forwards, one hand held toward her in a gesture of invitation.

"You wished to see me, little one?" His voice was soft and kind, but weary of tone. 

Emotion seemed to wash over her at the sight of him. Her lip trembled with it, and unbidden tears began to fall. 

"I apologise for disturbing you Sire......" She began, but found herself unable to continue. Suddenly feeling lightheaded. 

Whether it was her expression, or the desperation in her hushed voice, His Eminence seemed to make a decision. 

In two strides he was before her, just as her legs seemed to give way. 

Attempting to catch her elbows to prevent her sinking down, he was a moment too late. 

Her arms came around the tops of his thighs, holding him tight, her face pressed sideways against his trousers, below his midriff. 

Sobbing as if her heart would break. 

" _Oh, Armand!"_

No words came from him. 

Instead a gentle hand resting on the back of her head. Stroking her hair. Holding her in place against his body. 

Kneeling there at his feet, cheek hot and wet against his clothing. 

So long since they'd been this close. 

Oh how she'd missed the scent of him, his warmth, his touch. 

Clinging now, her hands against his buttocks, pulling him toward her, until he almost toppled over. 

"Cherie..... _please!"_

His voice now thick and deep, trembling with suppressed desire, a long unfelt arousal sweeping through him.

"Oh, my sweet Lord, please forgive me....." She began to kiss him through his breeches, making him whimper above her.  
  
"....I didn't come here for this......I swear......I only wanted to talk to you.......but seeing you.......like this......after so long........I need.......I need to......" 

His fingers were pressing her head closer now, and she could feel his body responding at every moment to her actions. Breathing becoming rapid, little gasps leaving him, as he fought to stand his ground. 

Looking down on her, as she looked up pleadingly at him, her hands resting gently on his hips, pupils wide with sudden lust, waiting for his consent to continue. 

_"Do it!_ " He whispered fiercely.

She placed one more kiss against him, as if in gratitude, before releasing him from his clothing, palming his hardness, then taking him into her willing mouth. 

Above her he let out a series of gasps and moans, clutching the desk beside him to steady himself, as she fellated him.

" _Stop_! Cherie.......stand.......I will have you one more........before I........" He began suddenly to tug on her elbows, hauling her upright, manhandling her into submission. 

There was little gentility in the way he pushed her backwards onto his bed, her legs hanging over the edge, bending over her almost menacingly, his face flushed, body hot as he held her down. 

_"Has he asked you to marry him yet? Is that why you came?_ " He demanded, his tone was masterful, almost harsh, as his hands began to hitch up her skirts, she made no attempt to fight him, as his fingers caressed her wantonly between her legs, making her groan with pleasure beneath him. 

"Yes! Yes, my Lord......he has.......oh, God......and I had to see you......I wanted......." 

"You wanted what?" Pushing his body weight between her thighs he positioned himself. _"This?"_

"I don't know......God help me......I love him.......but I love you more........so much more......"

His glistening member was forced inside her. He took her roughly, and without finesse, eyes boring into her own as he plunged into her over and over. Speaking to her with each thrust. 

"You. Will. Be. His. But you. Will. Always. Belong to me. Mine! You are mine! Always. Always souris!" 

He pulsed then, throwing his head back, crying out, as she sobbed her own completion under him. 

oOo

Rolling away, he lay on his back beside her limp body, panting for want of air. 

His heart beating wildly. 

"You will be the death of me!" He gasped. 

Without tucking down her dishevelled clothing, she turned on her side and snuggled against him, still weeping quietly, his arms finally came around her comfortingly. 

"Sweet Armand. I am yours. I always will be. But I _shall_ accept François, if I have your blessing. I will take him as my husband, I shall love him and cleave to him always, from this day forth.  
You and I and this night will remain locked within my heart.  
Through Henri and Louis you will always be a part of me. That will never change.  
But I shall be a proper wife, faithful and true, the boys will have a father to look up to, and, if you are willing, when Henri is of age, he might come to Paris to attend the Seminary, to train for a priest, and you may watch over him from afar, in my stead." 

Gentle kisses were placed against her hair in response to these words, and she was pulled tightly against him. 

"God bless you both my dearest little one, my petite souris. May he watch over you and keep you, may you have many happy days like this together." 

Releasing her, he first sat up, then rose, replaced his clothing and poured himself some wine, which he drained rapidly then set the cup aside. 

The young woman struggled to her feet, straightened herself, then walked into his open arms. Hugging him tight. 

"Think of me sometimes, Master, for we will not meet again once I am married. You have been everything to me......for a very long time, and now you must let me go. I will remember you often, and all that you were...... _are_.....to me. God bless and keep you." 

Moving back, she took his hand reverentially and kissed it, before removing the ring he'd given her and placing it into his palm. 

Stepping backwards, she dropped a very low curtesy, her head bowed down. 

She rose, turned away.

Then was gone. 

oOo

_Epilogue._

François de Vignerot married his Gabrielle in the King's private chapel. By His Majesty's own chaplain. 

Together they spent ten happy years, before François death in 1646. Aged 37 yrs. 

_Children:_

Armand-Jean de Vignerot du Plessis de Richelieu.  
Jean-Baptiste Amador de Vignerot du Plessis.  
Emmanuel-Joseph de Vignerot du Plessis.  
Marie-Madeleine Thérèse de Vignerot du Plessis.

Armand-Jean de Vignerot du Plessis later became 2nd Duc de Richelieu et de Fronsac.  
(His great Uncle Cardinal Richelieu being the first).  
He died in 1715. Aged 86 yrs.

All subsequent Duc's de Richelieu carried the name of Armand amongst their names until the eighth and last Duc died childless in 1952. Thus ending the Ducal line. 

However the names of Du Plessis and de Richelieu continue to this day, and are spread all over the world.


End file.
